


Plagiarising Soup

by honeybun



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Filthy Feel Good Fic, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:17:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun
Summary: Percival Graves has accepted certain truths about himself. One of those truths is that he cannot and will not cook if possibly avoidable. Another way in which Credence had fitted into his life so spectacularly - the boy loved to cook, and Graves loved to eat Credence’s carefully prepared food. Simple. Perfect.Things had gone on smoothly for many a month, until late December, when Credence had fallen ill.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello <3 
> 
> I'm just gradually adding and updating my little fics from tumblr.
> 
> You can also find me there @ weepingstar xoxox

One dreary Tuesday afternoon, Percival Graves finds himself in the most bizarre situation, he is home from work, and trying to cook. 

Now, Graves has accepted certain truths about himself. One of those truths is that he _cannot_ and _will not_ cook if possibly avoidable. Another way in which Credence had fitted into his life so spectacularly - the boy loved to cook, and Graves loved to eat Credence’s carefully prepared food. Simple. Perfect.

Things had gone on smoothly for many a month, until late December, when Credence had fallen ill.

This is unfortunately how Graves now finds himself standing in his own damn kitchen while having flashbacks to his godawful potions O.W.L, because he’s pretty sure the tomato soup should not be that colour. There are splatters of the liquid on his silk shirt, his usually perfect hair is mussed and a cookbook is almost _grudgingly_ sat open on the counter. How could tomato soup be anything other than red?

Graves scratches behind his ear with the tip of his wand, remembers his poor Credence laying down in the room next to him, and perseveres. He perseveres for another four minutes when a small kitchen fire gets far too close to singeing off his eyebrows. Then he decides to persevere in a different, more efficient, less life (and eyebrow) threatening way.

Firecalling Tina Goldstein is a strange experience, seeing as they don't usually speak outside of work hours in anything other than emergency circumstances, and Tina has never seen Graves look quite so dishevelled.

Graves is firecalling her (curious), looking sheepish and worried (bizarre), and asking for soup in such a way that she doesn't feel she has much choice ( _extraordinary_ ). Tina gets to work, having no idea what could have Director Graves in such a state and takes the making of soup as a matter of National Security. Upon finding out that little Credence has a cold, she stills her wand for a moment before rummaging in the cupboards to find some enchanted honey to mix in a warm drink, it’ll help a sore throat, she tells Graves who's wearing a hole in the carpet from pacing.

Another five minutes and Graves is back in his own kitchen with a vat of steaming soup and a jar of honey, also, a solemn promise from himself to take on Goldstein’s paperwork for the week. The whole goddamn week. Graves closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, and checks his wards on the boy next door, who seems to be asleep still, fighting off the flu. Graves frowns, concerned Credence needs better sleep, more blankets, plumper pillows, more cold remedy, more quiet, _mor-_

Graves ladles soup into a bowl for Credence while trying to get a hold of himself and still his worrying. He takes the bowl into the room where he had placed Credence this morning as soon as the stubborn boy told him he was _barely_ sick. _Barely sick_ with the most feeble voice Graves had ever heard. Graves had to stop himself from calling a no-maj doctor who would likely ask why he had moving portraits. Bending down to Credence on his makeshift sick-bed (Graves' antique, terrible, uncomfortable couch), he gently nudges him awake, helps him sit up, and watches him dutifully gulp down some soup.

The boy gazes up at him, looking dreamy from fever, and quietly asks if Mr. Graves had made it himself, it's delicious, Mr. Graves, the best soup Credence had ever had, truly.

Before he realises, Graves says, "Yes, I did."

Another such truth that Graves accepted about himself a long time ago is that he is a selfish man. And the sin of telling a white lie to his poor boy is overwhelmed by the need to see the look of tender wonder and awe is his Credence’s eyes.

"No one's ever made me soup before," Credence says, the blush on his cheeks surely from fever, Graves tells himself.  

A whole goddamn week of paperwork just for his boy to feel a little better and to look at him as if he had hung the moon and stars in the sky. It was nothing, a trifle, he could do the paperwork in his sleep. He could do Goldstein’s paperwork while thinking of how Credence looked when he brought him warm cordial and honey to ease his sore throat. He would think of how Credence had asked him to stay, to sit with him. Or how Credence had so quickly dozed off, head lolling onto Graves in his slumber, Graves adjusting him carefully against his chest to keep him more comfortable and warm.

A recent addition to the list of _Certain Truths_ Graves compiles in his head, he thinks while holding a sleeping Credence, is that he would do absolutely anything for his Credence.


End file.
